


Walking the Wire

by iamfitzwilliamdarcy



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 14:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12037617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamfitzwilliamdarcy/pseuds/iamfitzwilliamdarcy
Summary: Bruce collects his family.





	1. Chapter 1

Bruce is 26 years old, and he has no idea what he is doing. There’s a small hand in his, cameras flashing in his face.

He’s argued about Dick Grayson with Alfred for days. 

“You’re too reckless,” Alfred said. “You’re not old enough.”

He knew plenty of people his age with children. Most younger than nine sure, but-

“What do you know about taking care of children?”

Admittedly, very little. But Bruce could be thorough. He knew how to learn. 

“I can’t just leave him, Alfred,” he said. Alfred looked at him a long time, and then nodded.

He’s here now, on Dick’s other side, opening up the car door. They get settled inside, away from the reporters, take off down the road home, and Bruce thinks, That was the easy part. 

Because they’re standing here now, in the giant foyer, and Dick isn’t saying anything and Bruce can’t think of anything to say. Alfred nudges him, and Bruce starts. Tells Dick he’ll take him to his room. 

Dick isn’t clinging to Bruce anymore, and he looks small following Bruce around in the hallways of his mansion. Bruce wonders, briefly, if he had looked that small in these hallways when he was Dick’s age. 

(Bruce never quite manages to shake thinking of Dick as small.)

It’s weeks before Bruce fully realizes Dick is not naturally a quiet kid, that he chatters and it’s his natural state, that grief had swallowed him into silence but was returning him slowly. 

Bruce doesn’t know how to get to know him. There’s parts of him that are so guarded, he doesn’t even remember that they open, much less how. 

Alfred gets along with Dick easily. He talks and encourages conversation instead of shutting it down. He gets Dick giggling and manages to reprimand without coming across as angry. As mean. And Alfred tuts at Bruce in a disapproving way. An I-Told-You-So way. Bruce is careful to not let Alfred see how it gets to him. (Alfred sees anyway). 

It’s nearly a month later that Dick wakes Bruce, who has only just fallen asleep, up. 4:30am, Bruce’s alarm yells at him. They’ve only just gotten to a point of shaky camaraderie. To smiles over breakfast and actual conversations at dinner. Alfred even suggested one day Bruce bring Dick with him to the office; Dick comes and swings his legs in the space between Bruce’s executive chair and the floor and talks everyone’s ear off.

(The office feels lighter that day. Everyone smiles; more people come to Bruce’s office and some don’t even really have business for him. Dick holds Bruce’s hand crossing the street to get ice cream after lunch.)

But now, a dark silhouette in the doorway, eyes gleaming, clutching his stuffed elephant, Dick hesitates. He doesn’t speak, which, Bruce is learning, is a sign of distress.

Bruce forces himself awake. Tries not to think how it’s only been twenty minutes since he sank into bed. He’s been awake for longer. He can wake up faster.

He blinks a few times. Clears his throat, but his “What’s wrong?” still comes out rough, gravelly. 

Dick takes it as an invitation though. He steps into the room, and then he dashes to Bruce’s bed and dives in. 

Bruce is startled, manages to sit up in time for Dick to settle next to him, head resting on Bruce’s shoulder, like he does sometimes on the couch after dinner, while Bruce reads. Dick’s never there long, and even when he’s still he fidgets, but Bruce has grown used to that. 

Now, he wraps in arm around the kid, lets him hunker down into his side, and waits. 

Dick says, eventually, “Alfred told me your parents died too.” 

Bruce stills, tenses, tightens his arm around Dick just a little. Dick squirms, and Bruce lets out a breath, forces himself to relax.

“They did,” he says. 

Dick nods. His face, rounded still with childhood, is very serious. He’s quiet for a long while, and Bruce is about to let himself doze against the backboard, when he asks, voice trembling, “Do you dream about it?”

Bruce is 26 and he has no idea what he is doing. He has never shared his bed before, he has never been around children, not since he was a child himself (and, to Alfred’s chagrin, not even much then). He isn’t affectionate, doesn’t know how to show that through touch (even if, in the past month, Dick manages to keep wiggling his way into Bruce’s side). 

But he does know grief. And he knows loneliness. 

He clears his throat, and whispers (confesses), “Yes, I do. I still dream about it.” 

Dick lets out a small sigh, relief, Bruce thinks, and closes his eyes. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Sure, chum,” Bruce says, settling back down. He waits until he hears Dick’s breath even out into sleep before letting his own eyes drift close.

And maybe he’s too young, and maybe he’s too reckless, and maybe doesn’t know at all what he’s doing. But Bruce thinks maybe, just maybe, this will work out.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce is 35, and he’s not sure how so much time has passed so quickly. How many things can change in nearly a decade.

How Bruce has grown almost middle aged (old, his brain supplies, but Alfred would raise his eyebrows if he said that out loud) and how Dick has grown up.

How they’ve grown apart.

They go weeks without speaking sometimes (once a full two months). And when they speak, they argue. And when they argue, Dick leaves. Again and again. 

He’s grown up, but he’s still so young. Eighteen, already dropped out of college, abandoned Robin for some new vigilante venture. His own team, his own League, his own friends. 

(Bruce won’t ever say he’s jealous of Dick’s independence. Won’t ever even acknowledge he misses his kid by his side.)

But the Mansion is quieter. Draftier. No laughter rings off the walls, no chatter, no sighs from Alfred over something broken. Bruce sometimes feels like some monster prowling through his own home, like that movie Dick had made him watch, years and years ago. A Beast. 

So it’s not exactly—it’s not loneliness that makes Bruce think twice about Jason Todd. He’s not a replacement for Dick. He’s not. 

(Even if Dick is the first person he wants to tell about finding some punk kid trying to steal the ties off the Batmobile; Bruce would never live it down, but he can practically hear Dick crying with laughter.)

(Even if Alfred doesn’t believe him.)

(It’s true though; Bruce may be a liar and a good one, especially to himself, but this time it’s true. He can’t replace Dick, doesn’t want to try.)

It’s not even really that Bruce admires Jason’s spunk, even though he does. It’s more that—Bruce sits at home at his long dining room table and eats what Alfred has prepared for dinner and Bruce can’t stand the thought of that kid going home (does he even have a home?) hungry. 

So Bruce finds the kid. Tracks him down to the little hovel he’s living in and feeds him. He’s suspicious of Batman, but Bruce learns his name, that his mother is dead, that is father is some petty criminal—either dead or in prison. But the kid is guarded and angry, and Bruce can’t help but think--

Bruce already hates leaving him, but he goes home that night. And comes back again the next day. And the day after.

It’s himself he’s arguing with this time, not Alfred, who’s been watching him with some knowing smile, some exasperated shakes of his head. 

But Alfred doesn’t understand—Bruce has already driven one kid away, can’t manage to carry on conversations with him anymore that don’t turn into fights. There are times he catches himself wondering if Dick were any better for having Bruce in his life at all. 

(Bruce knows he is but he also knows this is selfish. And on some level he’s aware he’s an intensely selfish person; he expects and he demands and he wants and it’s good to at least be aware, he thinks, to try to control it. To make decisions.)

(He’s also, on some level, more than just Dick telling him so, vaguely aware that he is an ass.)

It’s a week in and Jason isn’t any less—well, scrappy. Some part lingering anger, some part street tough. Bruce isn’t totally sure. But the kid is letting his guard down. 

Bruce takes a chance. He pulls his cowl off one night, when they’re finished eating. Ruffles a hand through his hair and gives Jason a small smile. Jason’s squinting at him, clearly taken aback and trying to act like he’s not; Jason doesn’t recognize him, though, and why should he? Bruce reasons. So Bruce tells him his name, and Jason nods. 

“I think I saw you on TV once,” he says. 

Bruce recognizes it’s a kindness, a bone Jason is offering, but he nods and agrees. Then says, “If you want--,”

But Jason interrupts, “What happened to Robin?”

Bruce frowns, thinks of what to say. “He’s an adult now,” he decides on. “He’s moved on.”

Jason nods. He’s quiet again, so Bruce completes his offer. “If you want, you can move in with me.”

Jason’s guard goes up again, and he’s looking at Bruce suspiciously. “Why?” he asks.

“You can’t stay here,” Bruce tells him. 

“Can too,” Jason says, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring.

“Not for long,” Bruce says, shaking his head. “Not if your dad’s accomplices come after you. Or when the bank forecloses on the house. Someone’s going to find you, Jason,” Bruce adds. “And they won’t just let you be.”

Jason’s thinking, stubborn, glaring, but he can’t argue that. 

“Or when you run out of food and someone else catches you stealing tires off their car?” Bruce presses.

Jason huffs out a breath. “What’s the catch?” he says.

Bruce shakes his head. “No catch.” 

“You like, what, Robin Recruiting or somethin’?” Jason persists. “’Cause that’s--,”

“No,” Bruce interrupts firmly. He shakes his head again, for emphasis, because the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind (mostly). “Just a home. Food. We’ll get you back in school come August.”

Jason makes a face, and Bruce sighs. Runs a hand through his hair again.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he tells Jason, who relaxes so incrementally Bruce only notices because, well, he’s Batman. He starts to stand, ready to leave again, and adds, “But you will have to decide. I can’t just leave you here.”

Bruce pulls his cowl back on, gets to the window before Jason calls after him. Bruce turns, and Jason’s standing there, feet planted, hands curled into fists, his face set. 

They’re silent a long while, staring at each other. Finally, Jason says, “Okay.” 

Bruce blinks, glad he has his cowl back on. He’s not used to being surprised. “Okay?” he asks.

“Okay, I’ll come,” Jason repeats, complete with a God you’re stupid tone. “Just—I need a day.”

It’s Bruce’s turn to hesitate, and the passing moment makes Jason glare. Hastily, Bruce nods. “Alright,” he agrees. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Bruce,” he adds. “Not Batman. I, uh, have a few legal things to work out anyway.”

Jason nods, and Bruce turns to leave again. He turns back. “You’ll be alright tonight?” 

The kid actually laughs at him. Part scornful, part bitter, part actually genuine. “I got this far,” he tells Bruce. 

And Bruce can’t really argue that. He leaves, goes straight home, turning everything over in his head. Mentions it to Alfred, asks him to call the family lawyer in the morning. Bruce can’t read Alfred, can’t tell if he’s excited or disapproving, so he sips his tea and keeps watching. 

He doesn’t sleep that night; he lays in bed and thinks about all the ways he’s fucked up with Dick. He can do better. He will do better.

(And even if he doesn’t, at least Jason will be fed and clothed; at least he won’t end up dead and forgotten in some Godforsaken corner of Crime Alley. Maybe it won’t be perfect—and that’s not good enough, not really—but it could be Something.)


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce is 40 and he is ancient. He has been carved out, hollowed. Left for nothing. Nothing left. 

He watches at the Joker goes back to Arkham. Wonders, more than once, why they bother throwing him back in there when he deserves an execution, a chair, an injection, a noose. Bruce doesn’t care how. 

There’s—he’s sure there’s some law, a federal one, not a local one—something about murder abroad—but

But Jason isn’t connected to the Joker. His death is a tragic accident. And he will know no justice except what Batman can deliver with his fists. 

(Batman’s knuckles drip with blood.

He rages.)

He spends less and less time being Bruce Wayne. Stops attending his board meetings, goes into the office once in a whole year, and leaves again after just five minutes. He hasn’t thrown a party or hosted a charity event or even attended one in nearly a year.

He sleeps restlessly. He eats, mechanically, what Alfred gives him. 

Bruce Wayne keeps going. 

He spends more and more time being Batman. Because Batman—Batman is his anger. At his failure. At the unfairness of it all. Batman is his outlet, his coping mechanism. Batman is who Bruce can stand to be right now.

(Even if he’s slipping.)

(He stops meditating—can only breathe in Jason and breathe out Jason- Jason, Jason, Jason. 

He bounces through what-ifs, the wrong what-ifs, not the ones the lead him clue by clue to a conclusion but hurdle and crash, around and around and around. What if he had fired Jason when he’d wanted to? What if he’d been faster? What if he’d taken Jason with him? What if, what if, what if

Around and around and around. 

Jason Jason Jason. 

All roads lead back to Jason.)

(And his anger burns. And his grief eats him up.)

(He doesn’t want to think about Jason. He doesn’t want to ever stop thinking about Jason.)

“I don’t want another Robin,” he says, firmly, at breakfast. He has told Dick this a thousand times already. He’s growing weary. 

He’s growing angry.

“Damnit Bruce,” Dick snaps, (and apparently Bruce isn’t the only mad one). “He’s not replacing Jason.”

Bruce flinches. Dick doesn’t even try to pretend he doesn’t see. He stares Bruce down. Says, “It’s never been about replacing Jason.”

“Then what is it about?”

“What Tim said,” Dick says, scowling when Bruce makes a face at the Drake kid’s name. “You’ve been reckless. You’ve been angry.” He pauses. “Mean. Bruce, I’ve never known you to be unnecessarily cruel before now. Not to petty thieves or low-end criminals.”

“Your concern isn’t necessary,” Bruce says.

“Of course it is,” Dick snaps. Then, “You used to care about what I thought.”

“You left,” Bruce reminds him.

“Yeah,” Dick agrees, his eyes blazing. Bruce suddenly feels tired. He doesn’t want to fight. 

“Yeah,” Dick repeats. “I did leave. Because I’m an adult now, Bruce. It’s what happens. And maybe I should have come around more, but you are an ass.” 

Bruce stands to leave, but Dick’s next words catch him, “You’re not the only one who lost Jason, Bruce. Stop acting like it.”

Bruce stills. He draws in a deep breath, lets it out, is still furious. “What do you care?” he says, voice low, controlled. Threatening. His Batman voice. “What do you care when you never even bothered to come around?”

“I care,” Dick says, and it pisses Bruce off that he isn’t intimidated. Pisses him off more that Bruce knows he’s right. Can’t stop thinking about Dick and Jason playing basketball or tennis on the grounds or the time Dick showed up at a Wayne Gala and had too much to drink (“Don’t’ tell me little Dickie Grayson’s old enough to drink!” A woman had twittered. “He’s not, but let’s let him have his fun,” Bruce had said back with a wink) and spirited Jason off to the Cave when the party got to oppressive—how Dick had told him all about Robin, the name, the colors, the Graysons—taking care of Batman—how Bruce stepping in to check on them had felt like an intrusion.

There had been good times.

“If you don’t believe me,” Dick adds, bringing him back to the present. “That’s cool, whatever. I mean, I didn’t even get to hear about it from you and, hey, thanks for the invite to the funeral. But think of Alfred too. Of Jason’s team. They all lost him. You do not get monopoly on this one.”

Bruce shakes his head. Twice, for good measure. “Robin is dead.”

“Robin is mine as much as he is Batman’s,” Dick says. “You don’t want Tim? Fine. Nightwing can take him.”

“You gave him up,” Bruce snaps.

Dick throws his hands up in frustration. “All Tim wants to do is help Batman,” he says. “That’s all Jason or I ever wanted. It’s all any of us wanted, and we made that choice. I did and so did Jason.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything and Dick sighs. Clears his throat and says, softer, “Why won’t you just give him a chance?”

Bruce is quiet a long time. Finally, he says, “Jason died.”

Dick reaches across the table, squeezes his hand. “I know.”

“He died because he was Robin.”

Dick nods. 

“I can’t--,” breaks off, starts again. “I won’t put another kid in that position. Not again.”

“He’ll do it anyway,” Dick says. Squeezes Bruce’s hand again, waits until he looks up and smiles gently. “He figured us out. He’s smarter than me and you combined. And you saw him out there, against Two-Face, how amazing he was. He’s got a taste of this life—he’ll do it anyway.”

Bruce closes his eyes, and Dick continues, “Give him a few years, some good training, he’ll be better than us all. But he does need training, Bruce; he’s not there yet.”

“Call him in,” Bruce says, and Dick starts, then smirks. “If we’re going to talk about his future, he should be here.”

Dick lets go of Bruce’s hand, tips his chair back on it’s legs and calls, “Tim.”

There’s a rustle, and then Tim appears, sheepish, in the doorway. Dick gives him an encouraging smile. Bruce just looks at him. He’s heard almost everything they’ve said. Good. No sense in repeating. 

Bruce points a finger at the kid. Says, “We take this slow.” Watches as Tim’s eyes grow wide, his mouth opens, just slightly. There’s a smile breaking across his face (Bruce already never wants to see it crack.)

Tim nods vigorously, though, and Bruce continues. “You do everything I say.” Pointedly ignores Dick’s amused snort, pretends it’s covered by Tim’s “Yes of course” anyway.

“No Robin until you’re ready,” Bruce adds, and Tim nods vigorously. 

“Your parents--,” Bruce starts, notices Dick’s wince and pauses.

“They travel a lot,” Tim tells him. “They won’t know.”

Bruce frowns; he’s never dealt with parents before, has always been the parent, but he figures it’s Tim’s right to decide who knows he’s Robin and it’s not like he exactly wants the Drakes to know he’s Batman…and well, like he said, they’ll take it slow. 

Tim’s eyes shine up at him, and Bruce is, despite himself, all at once, lost. 

(He’s not Jason. Bruce will never move past Jason. But there’s…something. And Bruce feels an inkling of what might be hope. For the first time since--)


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce is 42 and he is bad at girls. He doesn’t really do girls, might be a better way to say it. There’s Barbara, but she was never his. And Selina and Talia—they’re another story—different kinds of girls (and he’s not good with them either, if he’s honest). 

He already has a Robin. Has two (three) sons. He does okay with them. Dick comes home again, at least, and they argue less. Tim’s alive and Batman and Robing are clicking and things are okay.

But boys are easier. He’s always heard that, from gossiping, tipsy lips at parties he goes to, from his employees in the break rooms—the father of two toddlers, the single mother of three teenage girls. 

He doesn’t know if it’s a fair evaluation, but—well he’s also a boy. There’s a level of understanding there. 

But there’s something about Batgirl. Something about Cassandra.

She’s living with Oracle anyway. Barbara has been good for her. Barbara was Batgirl. Barbara knows. Better than Bruce.

(Barbara’s the same age now as Bruce was when he took Dick in.)

(Dick was younger than Cass.)

(They’ve already missed so much.)

Cass comes to him with blood on her hands and blood in her past. 

Cain’s blood. And he hadn’t killed her. Bruce is a detective; he knows how to put two and two together. He should be suspicious. He knows David Cain. But she saved the Commissioner. She seemed to…understand. Even if she was silent. She understood him. 

He’s starting to understand what David Cain did to her. 

Batgirl has never needed his approval or permission, has always operated on her own—in conjunction with Batman when needed, and they worked well, as a team, but Batman liked to demand, and Batgirl didn’t like to be bossed around.

Still, Barbara already liked Cass. And she’d taken to his suggestion to make Cass Batgirl readily. It seemed good. For them both. For Gotham

For Bruce.

(She startles him with a hug; there was really never any choice.)


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce is 46—dead, (lost in time), alive again—it’s hard to keep track these days. He wasn’t gone that long, but everything is so different, and he’s playing constant catch-up. 

(He hates playing catch-up; he wants to be ahead. That’s the only place Batman operates.)

Tim’s moved out. He’s not Robin anymore. He and Cass share an apartment; Dick and Damian have moved to the Penthouse. Damian is Robin. Dick is Batman. Still operating, even with Bruce back on the scene. 

(He clung to Bruce, when all the immediate things were done, when it was just the two of them.)

There were questions unanswered, and the one on the forefront of Bruce’s mind was what to do next.

Namely with Damian. 

It’d been a question before, but Bruce has been back long enough to watch the new Batman and Robin. Dick does well with the kid. Dick does well as Batman. 

Bruce can’t just come in and demand it all back. Dick will return the cape gladly—is already itching to get it off—but Bruce sees how he is with Damian—the easy affection, how Dick can actually talk to him, make him listen. 

It’s not unusual for Dick. But Bruce had seen how Damian was before. And he sees how he is now. Even with other people. 

Dick’s been better for him than Bruce ever could have been. 

(He keeps that to himself, but Dick knows anyway.)

“He needs Robin,” Dick tells him. “And Robin needs Batman.”

“You’re still Batman,” Bruce points out, and Dick huffs. 

“More than that,” Dick says, voice raising over Bruce’s follow-up point, “he needs his father. Which is, decidedly, not me.”

Bruce levels Dick with a look. Examining. He’s old enough now to be a father himself, which startles Bruce. A young one but (Roy Harper was his age, had had his kid and lost her already)—Bruce had been younger. 

He is getting old. (On some level, he’s vaguely aware he’s jealous.)

So they start transitioning and it’s…not easy. They argue. Damian refuses to listen, Bruce can’t figure out how to get through to him. They’re not in sink—Bruce wings left, Damian ducks right, and maybe they miss, and maybe they collide, and Bruce is ready to wash his hands of it all.

Damian prefers the nights he’s out with Dick. He tells Bruce so often enough, with just enough condescension that Bruce can’t even figure out how to answer. He’s been condescended to before, but it’s usually in conference room with businessmen who scoff at little Brucie Wayne playing CEO.

“Growing pains,” Tim tells him one day, then shrugs, uncomfortable, when Bruce looks at him. “That’s what Dick said. After you left.”

Bruce gives it more time. Time, he’s learned, is a funny thing and a fickle friend. 

And maybe it’s him softening to Damian (maybe it’s Damian softening to him)—maybe it’s just getting used to each other. But one night, Robin backs off a man—still just this side of too violent, but doesn’t finish, moves away. 

And Batman smiles.

Says, later, in the Cave, when they’re Bruce and Damian again, “I’m proud of you.” 

(Damian tuts, but there’s an easiness to his face that Bruce has learned means he’s pleased.)

Maybe it was meeting halfway.


End file.
